


Lucky Number

by Hope



Category: Torchwood
Genre: AU, Double Penetration, Exhibitionism, F/M, Kink, M/M, Multi, Object Penetration, Pegging, Somnophilia, Threesome, Toys, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-16
Updated: 2010-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-06 08:20:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not just like Christmas every day, it <em>is</em> Christmas every day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucky Number

**Author's Note:**

> Written for unstealthy in the MistleTorchwood seasonal promptathon. And zomg, made a billion times better through the tireless beta of cupidsbow, and to rexluscus for providing the final OK.

"Is it bigger than a breadbox?"

Ianto rolls his eyes and picks through the cellophane packet of candied ginger again, poking aside the piece that's shaped like a mummified knuckle for the one that's more like a Dungeons &amp; Dragons die. "Yes."

Gwen doesn't even notice the eye roll, and even if she had, Ianto suspects she wouldn't care. She's not even _pretending_ to be invested in the game; her chair may be tucked in but her upper-body is sprawled face-down on the conference table, arms flopped out in front of her.

"Is it organic or a product of intelligent design?" Gwen asks disinterestedly.

"You can only ask questions that require _yes or no_ answers, Gwen," Ianto reiterates for what feels like the billionth time. Maybe it is. "You could at least _pretend_ to be interested in winning." He can't even muster depression at the thought of how many times they've played this, actually. And to be honest, his heart is more in stirring an argument than convincing her to be enthused about Twenty Questions.

"Fuck, Ianto," Gwen moans against the desk, folding her hands against the back of her head instead. "Why? So that you can tick it off your OCD list once you've proven that you know _every item in the Hub_ better than I do? Didn't we know that already?"

Ouch. "If it's that annoying, you could just kill me," Ianto says, interlocking his fingers on the table in front of him and looking around the room. His doesn't need to count again to know there are seventy-four rivets reinforcing the ceiling, six chairs bordering the table, and the door is open at a 20 degree angle, give or take. He's not OCD, but it's in his nature to be _organised_, and he's running out of things to organise at a truly dispiriting rate.

He startles as Gwen smacks her hands down on the table and jerks upright. She's glaring at him, the effect somewhat ruined by her tousled hair. "Fuck you, Ianto," she says. She jabs a finger violently in his direction. "I told you I'm never doing that again and I fucking _meant it!_"

She shoves away from the table and stands, stalks out of the room. When she's just out of view, her mobile phone starts to vibrate against the table, chirping out _Jingle Bells_ with atonal cheerfulness.

"Phone's ringing," Ianto calls after her.

"Fuck!" Gwen shrieks, apropos of everything and specific to nothing.

Ianto pops another piece of ginger in his mouth, bites down, then spits it out again. Think he would have learned by now to avoid the one that tastes like dirt. Gwen's mobile quiets as it assumedly goes to voicemail, then a moment later jitters further towards the table edge as it starts ringing again.

*

 

For a while, Gwen is convinced that Jack's wrist strap is to blame for the reset. It isn't very hard to convince Ianto—though she'd once thought that he'd probably be happy to spend 24 hours a day at the Hub, he seems just as eager to fix this as she is.

The best way to test their theory—well, the only way available to them, really—is to try taking the wrist strap out of the picture, but it never sticks; Jack always wakes up in the morning wearing it again.

The first time they try to get rid of it he's complicit, handing it over for sealing in a timelocked container (at his suggestion, even).

The second time he's not so convinced, but they're able to get it off him without his permission while he's asleep; and then a third time while he's distracted by sex (both thanks to Ianto). The fourth time he's just plain unconscious (care of Gwen, with the aid of a sedative jabbed directly into Jack's neck).

The fifth and final time they manage to get it off him, it's a short day.

After, Gwen remembers Ianto tackling Jack to the floor and tearing the wrist strap off while Jack lay there stunned by the punch. She remembers following Ianto then, at a run, practically flying down the dark stairwells towards the archives blind, Jack's pounding footsteps and angry shouts chasing behind them.

Then the particular _chomm-fweeeehm_ of the anti-matter cannon charging up, stuck in her mind, and not at all much after that; the tumbling crashes of noise and sensation surprisingly brief, for all the devastation left in the silence after.

That's when Gwen's recollection gets short. It hadn't hurt at all, but that was because she couldn't feel _anything_, couldn't move; her rattled brain just processing that she needed to breathe less than usual, so okay, she'd just do that, then.

Darkness everywhere and dust in her mouth, and the sound of Jack calling their names, voice raw and frantic.

Then she woke up on the sofa with a hangover. Again.

*

"You know, if you're trying to work up an appetite by withholding sex, I think you'll find you're plum out of luck. Seeing as our bodies reset to yester-yester-yester… whenever-day morning, too."

Ianto doesn't even look up at him. "Bugger off."

Jack sprawls his legs open and leans back on the desk that Ianto's hunched over, deliberately resting his arse against Ianto's papers. "See, I _would_, but it kinda works better with two people." Reset button or not, _god_, Jack misses sex. Ianto looks daggers up at him and Jack's feverish mind assumes the next logical step is for Ianto to throw him down and fuck him into submission. Literally.

"If you try and wank in my personal space again, I'm cutting it off," Ianto says shortly.

"Rhys," Gwen's voice begs from somewhere in the Hub, nearby but out of sight. "Rhys, _please_." It doesn't sound like sexy begging, more's the pity. Jack's glad that the progression of Ianto's moods is at least something he can _follow_. He doesn't have to spend twenty minutes each day beating his head against the same ill feeling, desperate for the magical combination of words that'll wash it all away.

Knowing what Gwen's going through makes him feel a _little_ bit better about the whole forced celibacy thing, but not much.

"You could wank in my personal space," Jack suggests, making his tone generous. "Might make you feel better?"

Ianto stands up, back stiff as he walks away. Jack can't help but imagine him naked as he does so, and also can't help the wistful sigh he lets out. All the alien sex toys in the world—okay, in the archives, and that trunk under his bed (which is, on reflection, not very big, even with the Time Lord technology)—can't provide the same sort of satisfaction another living body can.

Because the best thing about sex with another person is that you can shut off your brain for a while, stop thinking about _yourself_ and your place in the world. No matter how dire that place might be, while you're fucking (or licking, or sucking or stroking or smacking or biting—Jack rubs his hand against the front of his trousers, cutting off that line of thought sadly), you're just thinking about _them_. And in that moment, the _petite mort_, nothing. If only he could convince Ianto of that.

"You could even do it while I'm asleep!" Jack shouts after him. Ianto doesn't even turn around, just stabs his middle finger up in Jack's direction.

*

It isn't that Ianto doesn't _want_ to have sex, it's that _the world outside the Hub_ is turning into some weird fetishistic site, for him—the more Ianto thinks about it, the more the thought of his own bed, his own well-worn, well-laundered sheets, the particular texture of the carpet under his feet… Even the limpid tone of the energy-saving bulbs in his front hall, and the smell of bleach and day-old coffee in his open plan kitchen—

Fuck. Back to the point. The more he _thinks_ about it, the more he _wants_ it, and the more the Hub around him becomes unbearable in its grimy, dim familiarity. Jack might be comfortable spending centuries here but Ianto is not; not psychologically, emotionally, or even physiologically. Okay, case in point: for a while he tried to sleep the day away, but where his subconscious used to give him the most absurdist, horrific shit to snack on, now it's all about missionary between flannel sheets, and snogging with morning breath until the dawn pushes through his bedroom curtains, and stumbling into his 70s-decored bathroom.

He'd wake up on the Hub sofa with a hard-on, which would deflate instantly, washed away by an overwhelming sense of despair cued in by the damp air and humming electrical equipment. As if the only thing that could possibly wind him up would be the toothpaste spots on his bathroom mirror, or the sight of the half-finished John Grisham sitting on his bedside table.

And god, should Jack actually _try_ something beyond the puppy eyes and tented trousers—should Ianto actually agree to being naked in front of him again—only to find that there's no way in hell Ianto could get it up… That would be more mortifying. More horrible than choosing not to have sex ever again. Stuck in the Hub for eternity with a sex maniac that he's actually quite fond of, but absolutely unable to perform for.

"I hate this," Gwen says, and Ianto doesn't even bother lifting his head, just tips it to the side where it rests against the back of the couch. Her pose is not unlike his, only instead of her limbs limp and heavy, she's got her feet up on the seat, knees folded against her chest. Her phone is in her fist, knuckles white around it. "I didn't marry a bastard." She snorts in half-hearted amusement. "Though, might have been better if I had. Bloody in-laws."

She looks over at Ianto, and her expression of self-deprecating misery sends a shoot of empathy through his chest. It's like looking into a mirror. Sort of. Gwen has much more hair.

"Still no luck getting through to him?" Ianto prompts gently.

Gwen smiles sadly, shakes her head. "He's still stuck on the bloody potatoes. I was supposed to bring some home last—last night. It's the _only_ thing he wanted me to do. Aside from take point on entertaining the guests today, of course. King of the kitchen, he is."

She pauses for another moment, pressing her lips together. Ianto gives a sympathetic, encouraging smile, even though he's heard this so many times. Not as many times as she's had Rhys screaming in her ear, mind.

"And now he's stuck there, potato-less, _my_ mum and _his_ mum having at each other in the next room, and—it's stupid—" She takes a big gulp of a breath, as if fortifying herself. "—But I can't stop thinking about how they're going to see that… That our presents are still under the tree, and then they'll know I haven't been home since last night. And Rhys never says anything about it but I just _know_ him, and it's not just the once but _every day_... Look, I told you it was ridiculous—" She blinks rapidly, thick tears clinging to her eyelashes like glycerine.

"It's not ridiculous," Ianto says, wishing he hadn't melted the Hub's pitiful, plastic tree with the blowtorch in a fit of humbuggish rage somewhere around the fortieth repeat. Gwen's reaction to that makes more sense now. "Especially as you're reminded of it every day."

Gwen moans and covers her face with her hands, her body starting to tilt. Ianto shuffles over, and when she lands it's against his side. They've been, for all intents and purposes, _living_ together for weeks, now, so it's not awkward at all for him to wrap his arm around her hunched shoulders.

"_This_ is ridiculous," he asserts. "We're practically living a made-for-TV-movie, for god's sake."

"I never thought it would end like this," Gwen says, responding a bit more soberly than he'd anticipated. "I mean—I thought it might end stupidly, like drowning in a flood of alien snot or something. But immortality through groundhog day? It's not ridiculous so much as… As horrible."

She turns her face against his chest. Ianto rubs her arm ineptly. Her next words are muffled. "No offence, of course."

"None taken."

*

It is the wrist strap.

He'll never tell Gwen and Ianto this because, well, a) it's something available only on a _need-to-know_ basis, and b) if Jack told them he fears he'd never have sex ever again. Not unless he raids the cryo drawers. And just—no. Not even _he_ would—

See, what happened was this: There was an anomaly. His wrist strap detected it, and in a throwback to its factory settings—that he had thought, for some reason, would be _useful_ to keep—it cast out a security net to enclose him and his surrounds, both physical and temporal. The security net had two purposes. The first, guarding his own safety—preventing him suffering any ill effects from exposure to the anomaly—and the second, guarding the safety of the universe. In other words, preventing him from tripping over his own timelines and turning the anomaly's tangle into a paradox.

Which is all very well, but two things kind of threw a spanner into those well-intentioned works: 1) the release of the automatic-response security net also triggered an alert beacon transmitted directly to the Time Agency, and 2) the anomaly happened to be the tail-end of a timeloop, a throwback from the folded vortex energy twisted around the mouth of the Rift.

They'd found out about the anomaly on Christmas Eve. Gwen was already on her way home, and Jack was happily watching Ianto hoover his office, snacking on the contents of the annual hamper sent to them by their local stationary supplier. They hadn't even _heard_ the sounds of the Rift alarm over the whir of the vacuum's engine, but then the emergency lights had started flashing, and Gwen was running back through the cog door again, looking like The Very Agitated Ghost Of Christmas You-Promised-Me-This-Wouldn't-Fucking-Happen,-Jack.

It was around then that the wrist strap had done its thing. It may have beeped; Jack didn't notice, nor did Gwen or Ianto, too busy trying not to trip over the vacuum cleaner's hose as they ran for Tosh's desk and frantically tried to call up the location of the disturbance. Their success was varying: Ianto figured out how to get the noise to stop and lights to cease strobing, but the anomaly pulsed out of existence again before they could get a fix on it.

They'd figured the Hub had gone into lockdown following the disco emergency routine, and Gwen was mightily pissed but Ianto amusingly cavalier about the whole thing, and together they managed to get rousingly drunk on the champagne from the Staples hamper, the remaining bottles of Owen's beer from the kitchenette's bar fridge, and at least half of Jack's bottle of nicely aged scotch.

Sometime around three in the morning Jack stirred from his contemplation of their passed-out sprawl, and it occurred to him that it was Christmas. He looked at his wrist strap to check the time, saw the supposedly reassuring blue flash of an outgoing beacon to Time Agency HQ, and, when frantically pressing buttons didn't stop or reverse it, Jack removed the wrist strap and hit it with a hammer.

Gwen and Ianto woke that morning with a hangover. It was the first in a queue of many.

*

It takes unsurprisingly little time for Gwen to declare that if she's going to be hungover every morning, then it's only fair that she gets drunk every evening. And with a supply of alcohol that replenishes itself every 24 hours, it's possible she could do this _forever_.

It gets boring after about a week's worth of days, though; and even though she's managed to convince Ianto to join her—and he's _so_ much more fun when discussing teen disco party soundtracks of the 90s, as opposed to boringly sober and disavowing all knowledge of the decade—Jack inevitably disappears into the Hub somewhere in a sullen huff.

She's tried calling Rhys while she's drunk—at a certain level of intoxication she always becomes _convinced_ that she can explain it right, stop him from being angry with her _this_ time—but his phone is never on after their explosive conversation at 11.32am. He must turn it off in a fit of rage every bloody day. It seems unfair, to balance the universe that way. Rhys is in fact _lovely_, it's cruel that he should be so repeatedly angry and hurt.

"But he doesn't remember," Ianto interjects. "Every day—" He waves the bottle. "—Is new to him. It's just the same day."

"I know, I know. But knowing that doesn't _help_." She steals the bottle from Ianto's lax grip and takes another swig, grimacing. Jack's nicely aged scotch isn't as nice on the tenth time she's drunk it. She'd kill for a gin and tonic. "I _miss_ him."

"I know," Ianto says miserably.

Gwen leans into him, jolting his shoulder repeatedly. "Anyone'd think _you're_ the one not getting a regular shagging." Come to think of it, he and Jack have been surprisingly discreet about it, considering that she saw their naked bums on regular occasions back _before_ she was a permanent fixture in the Hub. In fact, they could stand to be a bit _less_ discreet about it; with the lack of mental stimulation in the Hub and burgeoning depression, there's only so much joy her own wank fantasies can give her. More fodder would not go astray.

Ianto's looking at her, that self-pitying, stubborn expression on his face. Gwen, halfway through taking another drink, does a double-take at seeing it and pours the intended mouthful scotch down her chin. "No. _No!_"

Ianto nods, and the flush in his face might be alcohol, or it might be embarrassment. So it bloody should be. With Captain-bloody-Shagadelic wandering around like a lost, un-neutered puppy, and Ianto not even taking _advantage_ of it. "What's _wrong_ with you?"

"Ow, ow, _Gwen!_" Ianto fends off her uncoordinated attack with slightly more grace than a truly intoxicated person ought to have. She lets off the slapping, instead shoves the bottle at him in a non-verbal urge to catch up. "Frankly," he says, gasping in the wake of another swig. "I'm—I just—I can't get in the mood."

He chokes on his next mouthful, coughing and spluttering; Gwen can't see him but she can hear it. "Gwen, jesus christ—what are you doing?"

She peeks over the hem of her lifted-up shirt. "Thought this might help." She jiggles a bit. "And don't call me frankly." She says it automatically, one of Rhys' horrible puns; she hiccups a little in startled grief.

"Um," Ianto says. "Thank you?" She can hear the dulcet _scritch-scritch_ of his fingernails peeling the label off the bottle, but his gaze is still glued to her breasts.

Gwen hiccups again. It's been too bloody long, she's getting turned on by Ianto just _looking_ at her. And their bodies may reset, and she may have had a nice, hormone-ridden shag in the back of her car at lunchtime on Christmas Eve—easy enough to convince Jack she was going out for some last-minute shopping, the big softy—but… Well, the brain is the biggest sex organ of them all, isn't it? And her brain hasn't reset in all the weeks that they've been stuck here.

"Iant-o," she says, interrupted by yet another hiccup, and lowers the hem of her blouse and then fumbles with the buttons, fingers numb with alcohol. What the hell, it'll just reset in the morning; she pulls it open, threads snapping with a collection of sharp cracks. She's still wearing the bra with the clasp at the front—very useful for a planned quickie in the backseat of her Mini, as are shirts with buttons—and Ianto's tongue darts out to wet his lips when her hands go to the fastening. "Well?" she asks, pausing. "Is it helping?"

It's helping _her_ a bit, at least; she wriggles in her seat, the seam of her jeans pushing up against the growing heat and sensitivity between her legs.

"Yes," Ianto says, sounding conflicted. If she were sober, Gwen might take that as her cue to back off, but if she were sober, she probably wouldn't be doing this at all. As it is, Ianto's hesitation just makes her feel _more_ excited; she twitches with the urge to crawl right into his lap and convince him. "But—"

She undoes the clasp of her bra and lets it fall open, then—wobbling only a little—kneels up and leans forward. Her breasts swing pendulously, and Ianto's eyes dart between them and her face. She knows they look fantastic, and _she_ must look fantastic, flushed and willing. She plants a hand high on his thigh and gives him a squeeze. "Come on—"

He kisses her, hands grasping her face, and the rest of her encouragement turns into a moan as he opens her mouth up immediately, strokes his tongue into it. She braces her hand on his shoulder for support, unwilling to open her eyes even though the darkness and drunkenness is making her dizzy; she twists a fistful of his shirt.

He pulls his mouth away for a moment but she keeps her eyes closed as they brace their foreheads against each other, and she knows he's looking at her breasts again when his face tilts down, his panting breath hitting her throat. His hand—dry and warm, making her shiver—slips down the side of her neck and the top of her chest, then further, to cup one of her breasts. The nipple's already stiffened into a taut peak, thrumming pleasure through her when he rolls it under his thumb.

Gwen pushes closer, sliding her knee over his thighs and settling with more stability in his lap, and then it's all wet, drunken snogging and his fingers pulling her tits, her hand rubbing his hard-on through his trousers, and both of them rocking in a sloppy, uncoordinated rhythm. It's when his broad, thick fingers are rubbing inside her knickers that Gwen tilts her head back on a moan and opens her eyes to see Jack, standing frozen at the top of the autopsy stairs.

*

Ianto wakes up with a hangover. His gorge rises, as it does every morning, carrying the acidic remnants of fermented fruit to the back of his throat. Fucking Staples. He never wants to even _look_ at a bottle of champagne again. Let alone dried cranberries, biscotti and chocolate-coated peanuts.

"Morning, soldier," Gwen croaks from nearby. She always wakes up a bit before him, and most of the time is gone—stumbled off to the showers in her own anti-hangover routine—before he even opens his eyes. This time she's sitting on the opposite end of the sofa, eyes bloodshot, head propped on her hand.

"Fuck," Ianto grimaces, wanting to spit but still not uncaring enough to just do it on the floor of the Hub.

Gwen's shirt is buttoned, even if crumpled from being slept on, and Ianto muses on it in open-mouthed contemplation before remembering just _why_ that's of note this particular morning.

"We—"

"Yup." Gwen doesn't look regretful. Ianto _knows_ sex-related awkwardness in relation to his co-workers, and if there were any right now, Gwen wouldn't still be sitting there sending him a blearily wry smirk.

"Regrets?" she asks, handing him a bottle of water. It reminds him of— oh fuck, _Jack_. Ianto's mind rushes to the worst-case scenario, that Jack will sulk for the rest of eternity, while the throwback to his single gesture of hopeful concern—the morning bottle of water left by their passed out bodies prior to reset— will persevere.

"None," Ianto says firmly, already plotting—and, all right, if just the feeling of the cool, sweet water flushing the mossiness back into his gullet and the fond thought of Jack's consideration is making his belly twist pleasantly and his cock stir, then his drought is officially broken. "You?"

Gwen closes her eyes, and the expression on her face is wearily serene. "I could say that it doesn't count for anything because we've just reset like it never even happened, but…" She opens her eyes. "That's not really fair, is it? But we're stuck here, and it made me feel good after feeling _miserable_ for god knows how bloody long, so… I don't think he'd begrudge me that." She smiles, her gaze flicking down to his lap and up again. "Let's just do it when we're less pickled next time, yeah?"

Ianto smiles in agreement, then hands her the half-full bottle, as if to seal the deal. She takes it gratefully, gulps the remains down. "Still a bit too queasy to be okay with morning breath just yet, mind," she says.

Ianto coughs a little, wipes his hand over his mouth. "Yes, I should uh, brush my teeth. At least we're not about to run out of toothpaste."

"Heaven forbid. And, you might want to…" Gwen nods her head in the direction of Jack's office.

Ianto stands, firms his jaw. "Teeth first," he says. "Then I'm onto it."

"I'm sure it'll be just fine."

Ianto shrugs in agreement of that statement's obviousness. "It's Jack," he says. "He'll be more than fine." He lifts an eyebrow at her suggestively as he straightens his jacket. "Which I'm sure you'll discover for yourself, before too long."

Gwen looks definitely interested. Ianto holds the thought as he makes his way through to the employee bathrooms, gazes into the middle distance to blur out his reflection as he brushes his teeth, and straightens his suit before heading upstairs again. There's a brief detour to the autopsy bay to locate his tie and waistcoat; might as well make an effort for Jack, seeing as he so garrulously appreciates it.

It's not uncommon that if Ianto is quick enough, Jack's still in his own Christmas morning doze, sprawled on his side on the camp bed. The time he wakes up seems to vary; Ianto knows that Jack doesn't _need_ sleep, not in the same way he and Gwen do, but suspects that Jack has deliberately extended his unconscious time more than once for the same reason Ianto had resorted to naps for a while; to make the days pass faster.

This time, though, he's already up and dressed in his office, staring down at a sprawl of papers on his desk. Paperwork is useless, undone within 24 hours, but with their minds intact, they've all done a lot of _reading_. Gwen wasn't exaggerating when she'd cattily commented on Ianto memorising the contents of the archives.

Jack's also wearing spectacles, and he doesn't look up and peer at Ianto over them when Ianto enters, doesn't look up at all. Ianto sits on the edge of the desk—the same engineered-to-annoy pose Jack had parked on _his_ desk enough times in the past several weeks—and plucks the glasses from Jack's face. He examines them curiously. "Let me guess. Alien lenses that let you read at twice the human speed?"

Jack snatches them back. "They make me look intelligent." The look he gives Ianto isn't quite a glare, but it's in the same genus. Even if being in the same room as Jack wasn't getting Ianto's arousal piqued already, Jack's poorly hidden brand of jealousy would be enough to work him up a little. Jack's flaws are what Ianto likes best about him, and he'd quite enjoy a steamy, petulant fuck right about now.

He retrieves the glasses from Jack's loose grip and unfolds them again, perches them back on Jack's nose. "Sexy librarian. I like it."

Jack lifts an eyebrow and purses his lips; even sexier librarian. "I'm pretty sure that's my line," he says a little cautiously. His hesitance makes it even more sexy, and Ianto dips into his personal space.

He pauses before making contact, intentions abundantly clear, but taking in the way Jack's wariness sparks into victorious delight, Jack's eyes searching his face through the plain glass of the spectacles. Then Ianto finishes the movement, opening his mouth and pushing forward that final distance to snog Jack soundly. The glasses bash into the side of Ianto's face, and he blindly pushes them up into Jack's hair before holding Jack's head steady in both hands, feeling Jack's own grip land on his waist.

"You're over all that now, then?" Jack gasps when Ianto pulls back enough to rearrange himself, standing from the desk to sit again on Jack's lap, santa-style. "All you needed was a good fu—"

"Don't start," Ianto warns, and Jack—probably not entirely trusting that Ianto is really _letting_ him, this time—zips his lips and unbuttons Ianto's waistcoat with lightning speed.

The familiar feel of Jack's hand stroking broadly over his chest sends a lurch of arousal up through Ianto's belly; he's instantly turned on (okay, more than before) and eager (_much_ more than before) and left with the suspicion that if he'd just gone for this weeks ago, the reassurance of Jack's touch would have been enough to sweep out any maudlin cobwebs.

Oh well. Hindsight, and all that. Bodies reset or not, Ianto's appetite for Jack _has_ been worked up, and it's quite obvious that Jack's has for him in return. Jack's hands roam over Ianto's body as if he's got a deadline, pushing Ianto's shirt out of the the way to rub over his belly and up to his nipples, sliding fingers down the back of Ianto's trousers, cupping the side of Ianto's neck and squeezing along the line of his shoulder.

Ianto winces a little as Jack scratches up the back of his neck and into his scalp, and Jack pauses immediately. "What?"

Ianto groans, cursing bloody Staples yet again, and Jack, for letting them have that scotch. He _wants_ this, right now, but unfortunately the spike being driven into his brain above his right eye jostles in a bit further every time he twists his neck around to kiss Jack. "The bloody hangover is what," he hisses, grinding the heel of his palm into his forehead.

"Just a second," Jack says, all determined business, and leans forward, reaching around Ianto to his desk drawer, plucking out a little unlabelled jar of tiny white tablets.

Ianto blinks. "You want to retcon me," he observes blandly.

"It's not retcon." Jack fumbles with the jar, arms still around Ianto's waist, trying to peer around and watch what he's doing. "It's my hangover cure." He blots one of the tipped-out pills off his desk with the pad of his finger, holds it up in front of Ianto as if he expects Ianto to lick it off.

"You have a hangover cure," Ianto states. "And you didn't tell us about it before? Not one of any of the other _hundreds of times_—" he might be exaggerating, but such is the level of the pain and nausea that it's absolutely justified "—we've woken up hungover since this started?"

"There aren't many left," Jack says. "And we don't have a doctor-slash-pharmacist any more."

"We're in a fucking _time loop!_" Ianto exclaims. "We can't exactly _use them up!_"

Jack squints like this had never occurred to him before. Maybe it hadn't. He can be surprisingly blind when it comes to some things. Or maybe he's lying, and he is actually trying to retcon Ianto. Ianto looks at the pill clinging to Jack's finger with trepidation.

"It's not retcon," Jack reiterates, his other hand going to Ianto's arse, giving it a good squeeze. "Why would I want to retcon away last night before you've had a chance to tell me all about it?"

He has a point. With one last look at Jack that conveys his continued misgivings, Ianto opens his mouth. Jack pops his finger inside and Ianto curls his tongue around automatically; the pill is tiny, and it goes down his throat with a swallow of saliva.

Ianto blinks. Shakes his head a little experimentally. Thinks about the most revolting thing he possibly can (that time Owen decided to kill the alien bacteria that had infiltrated his week-old socks by zapping them in the microwave, and then leaving them there for Ianto to discover on Monday morning). There's no impaling pain. No irrepressible nausea.

"I know, right?" Jack says, nuzzling into Ianto's armpit and looking up at him, eyes practically sparkling with self-congratulatory glee.

"Don't think I'm letting go of the fact that you withheld these," Ianto says, wrapping both arms around Jack's neck, twisting his upper body a little awkwardly to face him. Jack's already getting grabby again, his hand moving from Ianto's arse to his cock, squeezing it through his trousers.

Ianto tries to reciprocate, but it's all an awkward twist of limbs until he straddles Jack's lap to better reach the fastenings of his trousers, simultaneously providing easier access to his own. Then they've got each other's cocks out, nearly close enough to squeeze them together.

"How about a wank in my personal space?" Ianto suggests breathlessly, mouth watering at the sight of Jack's stiffly standing cock, his own erection throbbing with the need for immediate contact. Jack's gaze is likewise fixed.

"Excellent suggestion," Jack says, and wraps his fingers around both of them, their cocks snugging closer in his fist when Ianto arches his back and pushes his hips forward.

"Nng," Ianto says, and knocks the spectacles to the floor when he grabs Jack's hair, and drags Jack's mouth back to his for another sloppy kiss.

*

Gwen's spent enough time around groups of testosterone-sodden men—police training, for example—to be familiar with the old _you've shagged my mate, therefore you must be up for it with anyone, love_ attitude, but that's not what's going on here. Thank god.

She's always had a weird… _thing_ going on with Jack, though, since the first time she spoke to him. Well, it's not that weird; on reflection it just took her a while to get used to him, to read his constant flirting as nothing particularly personal, and to look past the _mysterious stranger_ and _boss_ filters to realise that he's just another human, another person in her life. Her best bloody friend, right about now, and that was before the whole timeloop/lockdown thing. She feels closer to him than any of the tattered remnants of her pre-Torchwood friendships, and since Rhys had the blindfold pulled off regarding all things Torchwood, she's been confident enough of _his_ place in her life that she can happily compartmentalise Jack from _potential shag_ into _mate that I really quite love, actually_.

What makes it easier to deal with now is that she suspects that Ianto puts Jack into that category as well, and her, to a degree (a degree which is mutual). Ultimately, Ianto's going to have Jack's best interests at heart, which means making sure Jack doesn't behave like an arsehole, even if he is upping the flirting to astronomical levels. The other thing that makes it easier to deal with is that that initial sexual attraction (and, well, _intrigue_) was actually based in the fact that Jack is actually a bit of a hottie.

Which is an opinion she may have disclosed, in those precise words, in amidst extolling the virtues of Ace of Base to Ianto a mere few nights ago.

"Gwen," Ianto says from nearby, and Gwen stops spinning in her desk chair—well, finishes the spin that takes her around to face him, standing at the foot of Jack's stairs and looking like James Bond. James Bond in the scene after the fade-to-black sex, looking all post-coitally tousled as he gift-wraps himself back up into his suit. Something to do with the shirt being tucked into the neatly pressed trousers, but the bare feet below them and the open buttons at the collar and wrist is what does it. "I just thought you should know," Ianto continues in a somewhat reserved tone. "That I saw the sign. And it opened up my eyes, I saw the sign."

"Oh, shut it, you." She covers her blush briefly with her hands, hunching over. Moments later, she feels Ianto's light touch between her shoulders, and when she lowers her hands to look at him, he's twirling a lock of her hair around his finger and smirking.

Jack's skipping footsteps sound down the stairs and Gwen sits up; Jack grins at her. "Don't stop on my account," he says, and Ianto startles as Jack gives his bottom a light smack as he passes, then bends to kiss the the lock of hair around Ianto's finger and spins away. "Or," he calls from the entry to cold storage, skipping backwards dangerously close to the stairs. "You could wait until I get back!"

The moment he's out of sight, Ianto's grabbing a nearby chair and straddling it before dragging it back towards her with long, propelling strides. "Here," he says, producing a little pill jar from his pocket. "Jack's been bloody holding out on us."

Gwen blinks at the jar in shock. "You want to retcon me." She's a bit surprised at how much that stings. She's a bit surprised, full stop.

"No—Gwen, no. It's not retcon. It's _hangover cure_."

She frowns at him. "Hangover cure?"

Ianto nods earnestly.

"And Jack's been holding out on us all this time?"

He nods again, a little more sombrely, and offers the jar again. She grabs it. "Just the one?" she asks, shaking the tiny pills out into her palm. When Ianto nods, she throws it back, then— "Wow. _Wow_."

"I know."

"We're not letting him get away with this, are we?"

"Never," Ianto says firmly, and with such conviction that Gwen gets a little thrill of excitement in her belly. "I know just the thing. Might have to wait for our moment. But I'll keep you posted."

"Roger, Roger. And, Ianto. Good to see all that shagging's not going to your head."

"Not likely," Ianto says. "Brilliant refractory period, when your body resets every day." He gives a smirk that's surprisingly lascivious, and Gwen gets the very sober urge to snog him—not just a drunk thing, then. Ianto is quite appealing when he gets his devious on, as it were.

The eager stomp of Jack's boots sound on the autopsy stairs and Ianto taps the side of his nose, giving her a significant look before pushing his chair away again.

*

If there's anything Jack loves in this universe more than sex, it's his team. And while shagging one of them is quite delightful, shagging _all_—all right, _both_—of them would undoubtedly increase the love exponentially.

Of course, he's not had a chance to test that theory, yet. He's working on it. Ianto is somewhat helpful in Jack's quest; agreeing to shag extravagantly in public places, such as the examination table in the autopsy bay, on the stairs to Jack's office and on Gwen's desk. He'd tried to convince Ianto to let Jack press him against the glass walls of the hothouse, but Ianto had insisted it was just too unflattering. Something about feeling like a specimen squashed onto a glass slide. Anyway, it wasn't like Gwen hadn't seen it all before, mind, but there was no convincing him. Especially not once Gwen decided to forgo even pretending that she wasn't watching.

On some level, Jack's convinced that Ianto's holding out on him—he and Gwen have this weird relationship that _doesn't involve Jack_, where they talk about obscure cultural practices from the last century and exchange grooming tips. Not that Jack dislikes discussing grooming, but whenever he tries to participate, they inevitably shut him down by explaining that either a) Brylcreem hasn't been available in its 'original recipe' since the 1940s or b) Hyper-Zap Pore Shrinkers (TM) won't be invented for another four centuries.

There's something soothing about their chatter, though, and part of it is just that they are happy for him to lounge nearby and _listen_. Let him soak it up. At first he'd been suspicious—convinced, really—that they were talking about him when they got into their drunken rambles. (Attempting to eavesdrop stealthily on that had resulted in the glorious eyeful of their apparently impromptu makeout session, though they'd hardly scrambled apart guiltily when they became aware of his presence.) On reflection, Jack's glad that their conversation is more diverse. The reminder that these two people—these clever, sexy people—are their _own_ people, just makes them all the more loveable. And attractive. And stuck here in the Hub, with him.

Jack heaves a happy sigh and puts his hand down on Ianto's leg, giving it an affectionate rub. Ianto trails off, mid-sentence ("…Never thought she'd wear a _biscuit tin_, mind…") and turns from Gwen to face him.

He lifts an eyebrow in question and Jack just grins in response.

"What?" Ianto asks, a little wary, a little intrigued; a tone Jack's very familiar with.

Gwen peers over from Ianto's other side, gaze resting on Jack's hand on Ianto's thigh before scanning over their faces and darting away again. Jack grins wider, gives another squeeze. "Nothing."

Ianto's suspiciousness is definitely becoming anticipatory, and his narrowed eyes and the quick swipe of his tongue over his lips makes Jack want to wriggle in his seat.

"So, anyway," Ianto says, giving Jack a brief, searching look before turning back to Gwen and continuing, "I _did_ have a tie-dyed tee-shirt, but it was one I made at after-school care so it was more of a badge of sha-ame," he gulps as Jack's hand moves up, cups over his cock. Jack drops his head to kiss Ianto's tense shoulder, breathing in the smell of his day-old shirt, and the no-brand soap he stocks the employee showers with.

"Keep going," Jack murmurs, peeking across Ianto's chest to see Gwen's wide eyes staring down at his hand in Ianto's lap. Jack waits until she looks up to meet his eyes, then he winks. Ianto lets out a shaky breath as Jack's fingers start to rub very slightly, Ianto's cock stirring under his touch.

"After-school care?" Gwen prompts, admirably unflustered. Unsurprising, the minx. She's been getting eyefuls of them, albeit from relatively afar, for days. Jack's pleased to see a flush is creeping onto her cheeks despite her relaxed tone.

"Perils of two working parents," Ianto says. "Especially as Dad kept his own hours…" The last word trails out as Ianto's mouth drops open; his attention suddenly re-routed irreversibly from the conversation as Jack deftly unzips his trousers, and slips his hand inside to find Ianto's cock.

Jack loves holding it while it's still a bit soft, the skin loose and pliable as he rubs and half-pinches at it; it's a warm, living thing in his hand. Ianto shifts his hips, opening his legs a little wider, breath hitching like he's debating whether to speak or not. Jack changes his own position on the sofa to get a better grip, turning to face Ianto and Gwen, tucking his leg under him and making his reach into Ianto's lap more comfortable. In the process he carefully manoeuvres Ianto's cock out of his trousers, pushing Ianto's pants out of the way with his wrist.

"All right, Gwen?" Jack murmurs, looking up to see Ianto's eyes closed, head held tensely against the back of the couch. Gwen's got her lips pressed together between her teeth, but she glances up at Jack when he speaks, and nods. Good girl.

With room to move, Jack strokes firmly but not too fast, not yet. Ianto's cock is getting rapidly harder with Jack paying attention to all the sensitive spots he knows, and soon it's standing stiff and shameless in Ianto's lap. Jack licks his lips in anticipation, slides off the edge of the sofa to kneel on the floor, shouldering in between Ianto's legs.

Ianto's eyes are open now, as he gazes down at Jack, expression intense and heated, one hand gripping Jack's shoulder tightly. He's usually not this tense when Jack's going down on him, but Jack supposes that might have something to do with the fact that Ianto's other hand is clasping Gwen's, knuckles pale with the mutual strength of their grip.

God, Jack loves them. He presses a kiss to the crags of their intertwined knuckles, lifting his gaze to look at Gwen… Of course she's staring at Ianto's cock. Anyone would think she'd never seen it before.

Not that Jack can blame her apparent fixation. He almost wants to take some more time to examine it, show off to Gwen a bit more, but for all Ianto's pandering to Jack's exhibitionist streak, he _is_ a very private person. Letting Gwen watch a blow job is, if Jack's forced to admit it, a little different from being presented like a show pony.

Still, there's nothing stopping _Jack_ from showing off. He takes Ianto's cock in his fist and angles his face towards Gwen, before parting his mouth and rubbing the head against his lips, letting his eyes slip closed as the first taste of Ianto edges into his senses. He chases after it, rounding his mouth, dipping down to catch the blunt impact in the cradle of his tongue, then he can't resist lapping at it, seeking more texture and taste and heat.

Jack loses himself in the moment, eyes closed now not for the sake of a wanton picture but because he's concentrating utterly. It's the _variety_ in cocksucking that Jack loves, the fragility of it against his teeth, thick veins just under the surface of the skin; in contrast to the rigid power of it as it bumps the back of Jack's soft palate, thickness stretching his jaw. Ianto's cock in his mouth is hard and unyielding, and simultaneously vulnerably sensitive; every lick and kiss and scrape draws a reaction from Ianto, a gasp or a twitch of his hips, his fingers digging into Jack's shoulder to the point of pain.

It's a different touch that slides into Jack's hair, and he opens his eyes at last, looking up to see Gwen gazing down at him, her eyes dark and the red of her flush painted brazenly across her cheekbones. Her fingers curl against his scalp, and Jack moans a little as she presses him down gently; Ianto's hips jerk forward, his cock pushing against Jack's tongue. Gwen doesn't let up, and Jack is happy to give her what she wants to see, unresisting as his encircling lips slide down to the base of Ianto's cock, the head pushing thickly into Jack's throat. He swallows around it, heat springing up behind his eyes and ears ringing; his body pumping adrenaline into his bloodstream in response to the apparent obstruction. It only serves to wind him up further, making it harder to concentrate on holding his breath while sensitivity crackles through his body.

Ianto's hips quake with tension below Jack's hands, but Gwen's touch relaxes on the back of Jack's head, slides down to rest against his nape instead. When Jack pulls off again, covering the wet shaft of Ianto's cock with his fist once more, he looks up to see their heads tilted towards each other, mouths joined.

Now _that's_ what Jack loves to see. He swallows, throat raw, and slides his hand up and down the slightly curved length of Ianto's cock, stroking as he watches Gwen and Ianto kiss. Jack breathes out against the gleaming-wet tip, a purely coincidental happy sigh, but it makes Ianto's mouth slacken on a moan. Gwen just keeps kissing, though, bringing their joined hands up to angle Ianto's head where she wants it and going at it open-mouthed, their tongues visible as they stroke together, the cling of their lips more accidental than controlled.

Jack can't help but grin at the sight of it. He pushes off his braces as quickly as he can, his trousers falling down around his thighs as he finally pops open his fly. Jack rubs his cock through his underpants, then pushes them out of the way as well, giving a sigh of relief as his erection finally bobs free. A shudder goes through his body at the first tight, dry stroke of his fist; he sets up a mindless rhythm on it and dips his head back to Ianto's cock.

Jack keeps his eyes open, this time. Watching the rhythm and intensity of their tongues, he tries to replicate it, sealing his lips around the head of Ianto's cock, slicking his tongue wet and firm around it. Ianto moans again, a high, helpless sound that means that Jack is pushing him closer towards the end. Jack tightens the grip of his fist around his own cock; mirroring the touch on Ianto's, he simultaneously twists on the upstroke. Both of them thrust forward, and Ianto's hips repeat the movement, rocking desperately into Jack's touch.

Watching Ianto's chest heave, Jack ramps up the speed and pressure of his tongue, and Ianto can't hold still. His back bows as his hips push forward, hand flexing before he lets go of Gwen's only to grasp at Gwen's face instead, pushing her hair back and holding her against him. Gwen's moving as well, one leg tucked up under her as she faces Ianto, her torso rocking with the rhythm of their kiss, thigh tightening as her hips push against the folded tension of her own body. Her free leg, dangling from the side of the sofa, stretches out until her bare foot finds Jack's thigh, her toes digging into the broad, taut muscle.

Ianto's close to coming; his grip hot and tense on the back of Jack's neck, now, urging Jack forward with more force than he'd exert if he weren't moments away from orgasm. Jack gives it up, sucking encouragingly as he lets Ianto push in as far as he likes. With a final slam forward, Ianto cries out and comes. Jack holds down his hips, taking control again as Ianto's come starts to fill his mouth; a bit of restraint when Ianto loses control adding another twist of pleasure to his orgasm. Jack sucks harder, swallows; Ianto might like to see it hit skin but Jack's fairly certain that's a bloke thing, and Gwen's the one watching right now. Besides, Jack _likes_ it, the distinctive flavour flooding his senses, making him pump his own cock more roughly, increasing the speed and sensation until he feels like he's about to come out of his skin.

Ianto opens his eyes for the end of it, head leaning against the back of the sofa like his neck muscles are useless. He pants open-mouthed as he watches Jack from under his eyelashes, and Jack opens his mouth again, rubs the head of Ianto's cock against the flat of his tongue as it pushes out the last gentle pulses of come. Ianto's chest heaves and his leg tenses and rises abruptly under Jack's braced arm; he lifts one foot and presses the sole against Jack's cock, forcing it against his shirt-covered belly.

Jack doesn't have time to process the sudden influx of intense sensation: the coarse weave of Ianto's sock and tiny bits of grit from the concrete floor, and the ungainly pressure of Ianto's foot _rocking_ against him. Instantly, he's hunching over and gasping against Ianto's thigh, orgasm roaring through him, soaking the front of his own shirt.

"Well," Gwen comments as Jack slumps limply forward into Ianto's lap. She runs her hand through Jack's hair again, curling her fingers to scratch against his scalp, and down to his nape. He hunches his shoulders in hedonistic pleasure at the touch, too wrung out for anything more demonstrative. Gwen's tone is wry, but not without affection. "Five stars."

"Out of what?" Jack asks, not sure if he should be insulted or not. He kisses Ianto's belly soothingly as it jumps at the hot puff of Jack's breath; Ianto's still coming back down, skin over-sensitised.

"Three," Ianto says breathlessly. Jack gives him another kiss, for that.

*

 

Gwen's waiting with the hangover pills when Ianto wakes up, watching him in the usual twelve minutes and forty-two seconds of him still being unconscious after she's come to. His limbs are tucked up beneath him on the sofa, the side of his face pressed to the grimy seat, mouth open. It might, Gwen reflects, have something to do with the horrible morning breath that also resets every day.

He groans and stretches his legs out first, then his lips purse and face screws up as pained consciousness razors back in at thirteen minutes and twenty seconds. At thirteen and thirty-four, Gwen's holding the pill in one hand and water bottle in the other, first thing he sees as his bleary eyes open. The pills still haven't run out, unsurprisingly, though they must have taken hundreds of them since Jack revealed them to Ianto.

Ianto grins at her wearily and swallows it down, relief almost immediately replacing the tense lines of pain and nausea around his mouth and eyes.

"Teeth," he mumbles between swigs of water.

At first Gwen thinks she must have been reading his mind—staring at the bob of his long, stretched throat as he swallows, wanting to bite into it—but then sees Ianto run his tongue around his mouth with an expression of distaste. Ah.

"And then—" Ianto gives her a pointed look, angles his head towards Jack's office. "It's time for payback."

"Payback?" Gwen taps the side of her nose, and Ianto nods.

"Uhuh. Meet me in Jack's office in three. And keep quiet. We don't want to wake him up just yet."

Ianto's a little bit scary when he's plotting something, but, well—not in an actually frightening way. In a thrilling way, definitely. Gwen's thrill quota ramps up a little bit more when Ianto walks into Jack's office a few minutes later, already half-undressed with his shirt unbuttoned and tie abandoned. His feet are bare, and Gwen isn't entirely sure why, but the sight of his long, hairy toes is always a bit exciting. Perhaps it's because Jack's rubbing off on her—metaphorically as well as literally.

"What's the plan?" she whispers.

Ianto stalks forward soundlessly and presses against her for a brief, hard snog that tastes more of toothpaste than of him. "Follow me," he breathes. Very secret agent.

He backs off again, crouching by the manhole in Jack's office and peering into it. He smiles at whatever he sees, then twists around to lower his legs through the hole, getting a firm grip on the top rung of the ladder before looking back at Gwen. He presses one finger to his lips, then gestures for her to follow.

She's been in Jack's quarters before, of course—and it's bloody disconcerting to fall asleep here only to wake up on the sofa again—but it's still a little foreign to her. Maybe something to do with its sense of discreteness from the rest of the Hub. Despite the similarities in decor, it's like a little enclosed world of its own. The air is thick with sleep, and below that is a distinctly masculine scent, and one that speaks of the lack of airflow through the space. It's not necessarily _bad_—after several weeks of having nothing to do but incessantly shag her co-workers (and repeat the same angry conversation with her husband every day at 11.32am), Gwen has found her definition of 'sexy' has evolved to encapsulate just about anything related to the men she's presently stuck with.

She pauses at the bottom of the ladder to take them both in for a moment—Jack still out cold and drooling against his pillow, body utterly relaxed where he rests on his side, facing out into the room. They've talked about Jack's various self-diagnoses when it comes to his sleeping patterns; Gwen's inclined to agree with Ianto's theory that Jack can just sleep on command. Deeply. And with no impending threat on the horizon—they know _exactly_ what each day will bring—Jack seems to be taking advantage of that ability now.

Jack hasn't stirred as Ianto has padded silently to his side, but instead of waking him, Ianto crouches down to tug out something from below the foot of Jack's bed with surprisingly little noise. He looks back over his shoulder, jerks his head to beckon her.

The style of the trunk is old, but it's definitely been well cared for, the colour of the wood rich with polish, and the grain deeply grooved around lid, worn into softness by human handling. Ianto carefully flicks the clasp up, cushioning the impact of it against the plate with his fingers, and lifts the lid, its well-oiled hinges soundless.

Gwen gasps when she sees inside. It's not—it doesn't make sense, must be some sort of optical illusion. "It's—"

"Bigger on the inside?" Ianto whispers back, humour apparent in his tone despite being barely audible. "Don't ask. Jack will never tell you."

The trunk is also filled with a variety of sex toys and associated paraphernalia, which is rather what she was expecting anyway. Still, she can't help a flutter of nerves in her belly when Ianto carefully lifts out a dildo with matching black harness and hands it to her.

"What's this?" Gwen asks, stalling with the first stupid question within her grasp. The leather straps are soft against her hands, rapidly warming when she rubs one between her fingers.

Ianto looks up at her where he's still crouching at her feet, lips curved into an amused smile. "Is it bigger than a breadbox?" he quips, then waves her closer. "Here, I'll show you."

He pops the fly on her jeans, pulls them down her legs and off her feet, preventing the buttons from clacking on the floor by carefully folding the denim before setting it aside. "May I?"

She nods, hands tightening on the equipment and lifting it up higher so it doesn't obstruct her view; Ianto hooks his fingers into the waistband of her knickers and pulls them down as well.

That alone is enough to stir a bit more warmth in her belly, pushing aside the flutter of nerves as she stands there, naked from the waist down, in front of a kneeling Ianto. He smiles reassuringly up at her, and when she plants her legs again after kicking off the knickers, her stance is a little wider. Ianto shuffles forward, hand coming up between her legs; his fingers dip into the furrow of her sex and stroke easily through the wetness there. He contemplates the thatch of her pubic hair for a moment, then angles his head to bring his mouth closer. His fingers part to spread her lips open a little, and he flicks the tip of his tongue against her clit.

Gwen gasps again, feeling impending vocalisation rising in her throat; Ianto pulls away as soon as she makes the noise, pressing his fingers to his lips in a gesture that urges silence. Her eyes dart to Jack, but he's still lying on the bed, body motionless and limbs limp. He doesn't _look_ like he's faking, but she can't always tell, with Jack. She looks back down at Ianto, quirking her mouth sceptically. This is the plan, then? Fucking in silence in Jack's room while Jack sleeps on? Enjoyable enough, but not the most rewarding form of payback, Gwen concludes.

"Don't want to wake him up _yet_," Ianto whispers again, then raises his eyebrows significantly and holds his hand out, and—oh. _Oh_.

"But—" She's depositing the harness and attached dildo into his waiting grasp even while still coming to grips with what he's inferring. "He's still _asleep_, shouldn't we—?" Consent issues are _not_ a mess she wants to get into, especially when she's got no choice but to live with herself—and with them—after this particular encounter is through.

Ianto smiles again, fondly more than lasciviously this time, and kisses the dip of her belly just above her pubes. "Trust me," he whispers. "He'll have _no_ problem with this."

Gwen does trust him. In a large part, in this instance, because if sleeping with the both of them at the same time has taught her anything, it's that Ianto is a seasoned veteran of Jack's bedroom habits and preferences. And far from making her feel inept, that knowledge is always extremely rewarding to observe in practice. She widens her stance a little further, nods down at Ianto in acquiescence.

He deftly buckles the harness onto her, straps looping around her thighs and hugging the bottom of her buttocks, another cinching tightly around her hips. The leather feels lovely, supple and clasping her tight, soft against her skin—from use, she assumes, and being well taken care of. The front panel of the harness settles firmly over her pubic bone, black plastic cock jutting out from it. When she shifts a bit, moving experimentally, it bobs a little, and—even if it's got none of her nerve endings actually in it— she can _feel_ it, the solid, leveraging weight of it, and the pressure of the base nudging against the root of her clit.

Ianto finishes checking the buckles and kneels back on his heels, looking up at her, expression questioning.

Gwen has to admit, it does look pretty brilliant, and she unbuttons her blouse quickly and shrugs out of it—and her front-fastening bra as well, bless it—to get her breasts in the picture too. Naked but for the harness, she stands with her feet set wide, the leather warmed already as if it's just another part of her skin.

She can't tell without a measuring tape, but the cock doesn't seem to differ much in size from Jack's or Ianto's, though it looks more impressive jutting from the smooth, black leather base. Or maybe it's because it's _hers_. Gwen wraps her her hand around and hefts it—it's solidly heavy, the plastic not cool but room temperature, smooth under her languid stroking.

Ianto looks impressed too, gazing up the length of her body from his position at her feet, and she tilts her shoulders back and tosses her hair as he watches, then waggles the cock in his direction. He kisses its tip when she holds it still for him, then slides his mouth down over it briefly. She knows what that mouth feels like on her tits, and on her clit; she wishes she could feel it now, but the sight is pretty nonetheless, the shiny plastic taking on a deeper gleam when he pulls off it again. The details are cock-like in a slightly more abstract sense, the head of it capped, a slight ridge running along the underside of the shaft. The aesthetic seems more art deco than realist.

She plays with it, rocking the solid base back against her clit and pushing her hips into it a little, imagining what she's going to do with it as she watches Ianto dip into the trunk again. He fishes out an impressively large bottle of lube, tipping some into his hand before passing it to her; they slick up Gwen's cock, hands bumping together over the hard black plastic.

Ianto rises to his feet again, taking Gwen's hand to lead her back to Jack's side. She becomes more convinced that Jack's still asleep as she follows Ianto's whispered instructions; he may have slept through their muted conversation at the foot of the bed, but now she's climbing onto the bed and he still doesn't stir. If the mattress were softer, it might jostle him more; not for the first time she boggles that Jack, hedonistic to the core, doesn't have more comfortable furniture.

Gwen restrains the dildo as much as she can, straps tugging, as she settles on her side behind Jack. It's hard to stop herself from touching him when she's this close. Heat radiates from his bare skin, along with the smell of him—deeply, freshly human in a way that makes her mouth water as she breaths in near his neck—it's like no one else she's ever been this close to.

Gwen props herself up on one elbow so she can watch Ianto; he's settled on his knees again beside the bed, easing the sheet—which is barely covering anything as it is—off Jack's hips. Gwen holds her breath as Ianto lightly strokes a hand against Jack's flank, his expression sombre with concentration as he watches Jack's face closely. Jack stirs a little, just a slight twitch of his head and a heavy breath out through his nose. Ianto changes the touch to push lightly against his hip; Jack's body tilts back a little but he stays asleep.

Gwen tries not to heave a sigh of relief against the skin mere inches from her mouth. She can see Jack's cock, now; it rests on his thigh, perhaps a slight plumpness to it that indicates it's not _entirely_ soft, and she holds her breath again as Ianto nuzzles his lips against it, her heart hammering against her breastbone in contradiction to his delicate movements. Her fingers flex around the warm plastic of her cock, the copious slickness of the lube warmed by her grip.

Jack huffs out another sigh, as if his body is slightly more responsive now that Ianto's mouth is touching him; like his awareness is rising back to the surface of his skin. Ianto opens his mouth and takes Jack's cock inside; Gwen watches his cheeks hollow as he sucks lightly, and when he pulls off again Jack's cock is definitely harder, providing more stiffness for Ianto to slide down on.

In front of her, Jack's back expands and flexes as he takes another deep, uncontrolled breath. His body shifts with more purpose, his arm stretching out from where it was folded in front of him, flopping down towards Ianto. Ianto pulls away from Jack's cock long enough angle his head towards Jack's hand, pushing up into the loose curl of his fingers, before going back to rousing Jack's growing erection with increasingly firm licks of his tongue.

Jack's next exhale brings with it a faint _hmmm_, and Ianto lifts his gaze to meet Gwen's briefly as he suckles at Jack's cock. Then he closes his eyes again, his hand gliding up the smooth length of Jack's thigh, urging Jack's knee to fold up a little, then reaching around to palm Jack's arse. Gwen watches, muscles tightening between her own legs and groin flexing against the constriction of the leather straps, as Ianto's fingers rub between Jack's buttocks. Ianto's fingers are still a little wet from lubing up the dildo, but Gwen grabs the bottle she brought with her and pours a little more into her hand; reaching down she tangles her fingers with Ianto's, slicking them up. _Teamwork_, she thinks giddily.

Ianto sinks his middle finger into Jack's arse. Gwen's more certain, now, that Jack is well on his way to awake; his back arches, pushing back into Ianto's hand. It means Ianto has to chase after Jack's cock, too big to fit fully in his mouth, now. Ianto grasps around the base of it with his free hand as he continues lavishing gentle attention on it, its plummy head peeking from between his lips as he drags wet kisses around it.

Two of Ianto's fingers into Jack's arse, then, pumping deeper on every instroke. Gwen reaches down again, rubbing her own fingers around the opening to Jack's body, and the next time Ianto slides his fingers in, she pushes one of hers in as well. The clasp of Jack's arse is like a vise, and Ianto's knobbly knuckles feel huge against Gwen's own. She's watched Ianto fuck Jack before but she can't help the sense of trepidation as she considers the mechanics of it, feeling the way Jack's arse seems to want to squeeze their intrusion out. The guardian ring of muscle stretches when Ianto spreads his fingers, though; Gwen can feel the resistance when she curls her own finger, and Jack huffs out a sleepy moan. Then she can't help herself, Jack's bare back right in front of her, his muscles shifting under smooth skin and emanating heat, making sweat spring up over her own body. She presses her face into the fine hair at Jack's nape, inhaling the rich scent of him, and nuzzles a little lower to press firm kisses over his shoulders.

Ianto's fingers flex again and straighten and pull out, drawing hers out with it. When Gwen peers over Jack's shoulder at him, he's giving her _the look_. She takes a steadying breath and directs her gaze down her own body, taking hold of the dildo again and wriggling in closer to Jack. Ianto's hand is cupping Jack's arse cheek, holding him open so Gwen can see what she's doing, and she lifts her knee up and plants her foot on the bed to give her more stability and leverage as she pushes her hips forward. She guides the shiny tip of the cock to Jack's arsehole, and when she pushes her hips forward the pressure pushes the dildo against her clit. The feel of that, and the sight of the broad plastic head breaching Jack's body, makes Gwen flush with heat, her cunt pulsing between her legs, the growing wetness there feeling cool as her pose exposes her to the open air.

Jack groans deeply, a more conscious but still uncontrolled sound. Ianto's hand is working his cock more purposefully now, as Ianto watches Gwen push into Jack's arse. She's watching too; can't help but gasp as the dildo's flared head pushes past the tight ring of muscle and sinks in. Jack makes a garbled noise, possibly intended to be words, and he turns his face into the pillow as his hips jerk forward; Ianto steadies the movement, keeps him on his side. With his arse clasped tight around Gwen's cock it tugs against her harness and she goes with it, following through, relishing the resistance now as she pushes forward relentlessly, until finally her hips are pressed snugly against Jack's backside.

He moans again, a vibration deep in his chest that Gwen can feel as she presses against it, nipples tightening as she squashes her breasts against the broad plane of his back. The dildo sunk deep inside him, she keeps her hips rocking just a little in an attempt to make it seem more alive.

Jack shudders against her, mumbling unintelligible curses into his pillow. Gwen bites his shoulder, an animal outlet for the surge of fond exhilaration that's rushing through her. Looking down the length of his heaving torso she can see Ianto sucking on Jack's cock again, his eyes closed in concentration, his fingers still digging into the flesh of Jack's buttock. Jack's body hunches forward, then back, pinned between them. He shakes when Gwen slings a hand over the deep curve of his chest, twisting her still slightly tacky fingers around his nipple.

Ianto hums, sounding like he's thoroughly pleased with himself and Gwen can't really begrudge him that; Jack's whimpering and writhing, thoroughly awake and already fucked out of all coherency. His head lolls on his loose neck, exposing the tender side of his throat to Gwen's mouth as he pants into the pillow. Gwen humps into him, feeling the clench of the muscles in his arse through the tightening of the harness whenever she pulls out.

Her attention's drawn back to Ianto, though, when she feels a cold streak of sensation against the skin of her leg. He brandishes the culprit when she looks down at him—his eyes managing to look smug even as his mouth works rapidly over Jack's cock—holding up a shiny silver dildo. It looks like something from 1950s science fiction concept art, and must be stainless steel with the deep, polished gleam. It's curved and bulbous, with ridges close to one end forming a grip for Ianto. It's realistic only in the sense that it's a phallus, the whole thing long enough for Ianto to hold in his fist and still leave a generous length bare.

"Sneaky bastard," Gwen gasps down at him; he must have palmed it from the trunk without her noticing, too distracted by her own cock at the time. It still holds her attention now as she fucks into Jack with powerful thrusts, not stopping even as Ianto brings the metal toy back against her skin. He glides it up the taut tendon of Gwen's inner thigh then nudges it against the mouth of her cunt; it's cold but not icy, sending shivers of anticipation up her spine. Ianto pushes it in smoothly, metal gliding into her, its cooler temperature making her more aware of its size and length within her.

The movement of her hips, slowed to concentrate on that first rush of sensation in her swollen cunt, kick-starts again when Ianto starts to pump the dildo in and out. She cries out, thrusting forward sharply. Jack gasps and she bites down on his shoulder again, holding on this time, taking a fold of flesh between her teeth and lashing it with her tongue. She rocks back onto the wicked curve of the dildo and then forward again, and again; tumbling into a frantic rhythm. The base of her cock butts against the root of her clit repeatedly, a beat that builds as their three bodies piston together; the perfect fucking machine.

Er, the perfect payback. Right.

*

Jack's always awake when the reset happens. That's half the reason he's certain that the wrist strap is the cause of all this; jolting from sleep, or sex, or contemplation of cold storage, to finding himself standing in the lab with a hammer in his hand at 3.14am is pretty damning evidence.

Most of the time he just buckles the strap back on and goes straight to bed (and boy, did deciding to sleep in one morning _ever_ pay off), not inclined to wander around the Hub like a ghost while Gwen and Ianto doze on. Some mornings he gets waylaid, seeing them sprawled out on the couch, and has had, on occasion, a nice wank while watching the loose drape of their limbs and the softness of their faces. Sometimes he fits himself in between them so that his movements wake them up and they can join in, though for some reason Ianto always insists on brushing his teeth before any shenanigans ensue. But that's okay. Gwen is always happy to play.

This morning when Jack emerges from his quarters it's late enough that the couch has already been vacated. The symphony of background noise that the Hub produces throughout Christmas day is etched into Jack's sense memory, so standing still and listening for difference is enough for him to hear where they are. He follows the sound down to the employee bathrooms, a level below the Hub's atrium.

The bleachy smell in the expansive, tiled room is softened by fragrant steam. The shower is running in one corner, Gwen's melodic humming weaving in and out of the beat of water. Ianto's standing by the old freestanding basin, staring blindly into the mirror as he brushes his teeth. He's only wearing a towel knotted around his waist, and the damp terrycloth clings to the top of his shapely bottom, not really leaving much to the imagination. Jack sidles up behind him, kisses the mole that beauty-marks the wing of Ianto's left shoulder, and runs his fingers through the dark hair that trails down to Ianto's belly.

Ianto keeps brushing, gaze sliding sideways to Jack's reflection, but otherwise not acknowledging his presence. Jack's not offended; he's kind of tickled that Ianto, reserved as he is, is willing to tolerate Jack's constant attention. It's almost more flattering that Ianto is so calmly indulgent of Jack's desire to be constantly connected than if Ianto's response to it were just as voracious. The days when communication between them was awkward—and the days when all Jack wanted was to be alone somewhere on a rooftop—have been buried beneath the simplicity of familiarity. Of _always_ being in Ianto's personal space.

Ianto braces one hand against the edge of the basin and leans over to rinse and spit. His back bends in front of Jack, popping up the knobbles of his spine, and Jack grips Ianto's waist, tugging his hips back and rubbing his crotch against Ianto's arse playfully. Ianto straightens, lifts his eyebrow at Jack's reflection, then looks down to concentrate on rinsing out his toothbrush. Jack hooks his chin over Ianto's shoulder, watching as well.

Ianto deposits the brush in the chalky-looking glass on the edge of the sink, and Jack reaches around to pluck it out again. He holds it up in front of them, twirling the angular plastic handle thoughtfully between his fingers. "I want to fuck you with this," he tells Ianto.

Ianto's back nudges against Jack's chest as he snorts. "No," he says shortly, and puts the toothbrush back into the glass.

"But," Jack says, pushing his face into the angle of Ianto's shoulder, deliberately scraping his eyelashes against Ianto's skin. "It'll just reset tomorrow. You won't have to put it in your _mouth_ again." Jack restrains himself from pointing out that Ianto seems quite happy to stick his tongue in Jack's mouth after Jack's tongue's been in his arse. Ianto can be weirdly particular about certain things, though that's becoming less so as their repeats grow. Jack must be wearing him down, though he still knows when to back down to ensure his eventual reward.

Ianto hunches up against him, dislodging his nuzzling. Jack sweeps his gaze over the collection of grooming and hygiene accoutrements stored neatly on the shelf below the mirror, seeking something that—hah. He reaches out again, this time retrieving a short tube of roll-on deodorant, holding it up again to examine it. The lid is pleasantly rounded, the same girth as the rest of the tube, and his fist covers the length of it perfectly. It's practically been _made_ to be a sex toy.

"And how would you get it _out_ again?" Ianto points out logically.

Jack strokes the blunt lid of the tube down Ianto's sternum, nudging it into the soft dip of Ianto's solar plexus. "Would it matter? You could just keep it in all day." He drags it suggestively along the low-slung top of Ianto's towel. "Reset."

"No," Ianto says, pushing Jack's hand away. "Not that, at least."

Ahah. Either interpretation of that—_you can fuck me with something, but not that_ or _I'll have something up my arse all day, but not that_—is promising. Jack presses happy kisses against the side of Ianto's neck.

He sets the deodorant down again, not missing the way Ianto's leaning back into the pressure of his body now as Jack reaches past him. Toothpaste tube—no; floss caddy—no; claw hair clip—intriguing, and possibly suitable for other uses, but right now—no. Disposable razor—definitely no. Hair brush—ah.

Jack picks up the brush, hefts it in his grip. The head is a broad oval, the handle a similar shape though elongated and narrower, and of course much flatter without the nylon bristles. The length is pleasing, and the plastic is smooth against Jack's palm.

"Awfully high school, isn't it?" Ianto asks, watching Jack's measuring touch, but he's a little breathless as he says it; heat stirs in Jack's belly.

"Hmm," Jack says consideringly, but he's absolutely already decided, and from the lack of outright rejection, Ianto has too.

Jack looks at them in the mirror. His own expression is self-assured and, if he says so himself, a little devious; Ianto just looks anticipatory, his skin flushed and wet hair still clinging to his temples, already making him look debauched. The fact that he's chewing his lower lip only adds to the image.

Jack's already getting over-warm from the humid air in the bathroom, clothes sticking to his skin, so he steps back far enough to unbutton his shirt and shrug it off. He stands on the toes of his socks to pin them down while he pulls his feet out, then kicks his trousers off too. The underpants can stay—ready-made friction for when things get a bit more heated.

Ianto's skin, tenderised by the heat and pressure of his shower, is still hot when Jack steps in and presses his chest to Ianto's back. In the mirror—kept serendipitously clear of steam, being positioned closer to the open door than the shower cubicles—Ianto is a shade or two paler, and his chest scattered with dark hair where Jack's is smooth.

Jack wraps his arm around Ianto's waist, reaching up with his other hand to run the hairbrush through Ianto's chest hair, smoothing out the unruly twists before they spring back into (slightly drier) shape. The sharp nylon bristles scrape over Ianto's soft, pink nipples and he sucks in a breath; the little buds are hot and firm under Jack's thumb when he strokes them soothingly.

"Not quite what I imagined," Ianto comments dryly.

Jack chuckles, then steps back to whip Ianto's towel away in one swift movement. Ianto's body rocks a little, then jolts in a flinch as Jack smacks the flat of the brush against the side of Ianto's bottom. Ianto scowls at him unconvincingly in the mirror; Jack can see from Ianto's cock that he's more interested than he pretends.

"Brace," Jack instructs, and Ianto leans forward to grasp the edges of the basin, elbows locked and arms straight. Jack eyes the range of gels and lotions and conditioners displayed on the shelf, then snags his pocket-sized bottle of lube from, well, his pocket. It's half-empty—they'd used up most of it on Christmas Eve—and makes a rude noise as Jack squeezes it into his palm.

He smears it around the brush handle, the cheap plastic tortoiseshell pattern darkening as it gets wet. Jack wipes the remaining lube from his hand between Ianto's buttocks, and then presses the heel of his palm to the small of Ianto's back. Ianto shuffles his legs apart, bare feet making sticky sounds against the clammy tile.

Jack presses the tip of the hairbrush handle against Ianto's arsehole, bristles prickling into the grip of his palm where he grasps the head. He rocks the brush forward experimentally, the curved edge notching into the dip of Ianto's hole. Feeling the yield, Jack twists it while exerting more pressure, pushing gently but insistently, getting the angle right when the handle sinks in.

Ianto sucks in a sharp breath, reaction to the penetration rolling through his body; thigh muscles tightening, back arching, his head dropping down to hang between the thrust-up angles of his shoulders. Jack presses down harder on Ianto's lower back, deepening the curve. Ianto's opening is clasped around the tapered part of the handle below the head, and Jack twists the brush again, imagining the flattened, wider shape of the handle stimulating the inside of Ianto's body. He estimates the distance to Ianto's prostate as best he can without feeling for himself, gauging from the way Ianto's shoulders tighten and breathing speeds up when he turns the brush back and forth at a particular angle. Lovely.

"Head up," Jack instructs. Ianto obediently raises his head and Jack can see his face in the mirror, cheekbones flushed and eyes dark, his jaw slack and lips chewed red. Jack tips the head of the hairbrush upwards, angling the handle down; Ianto's brow tightens and he breathes out heavily, eyelids drooping closed. Jack pulls the brush out part-way, far enough to stretch Ianto open with the widest part of the handle before pushing it back in again at the same angle; Ianto's eyes screw shut before his head drops again, his heavy exhale fleetingly visible on the mirror's surface.

"Up," Jack commands, rocking the brush up and down firmly. Ianto lifts his head again, blinking his eyes open to stare at his own reflection. Jack increases the pressure against Ianto's prostate, and Ianto moans, jaw slack.

"Oi." Jack looks away from the naked pleasure in Ianto's face to see Gwen standing nearby, towel wrapped around her torso. The noise from the shower has finally shut off, and thick steam is roiling through the bathroom, clearing around the open door. "Is that my hairbrush?"

Jack grins winningly, not breaking the steady rhythm of his hand levering the brush in Ianto's arse. "It'll reset tomorrow."

Gwen doesn't look entirely appeased by that answer, but her gaze is only on Jack's face briefly, expression shifting from scepticism to heated interest as she takes in the tense angle of Ianto's back, his widened stance, and of course the motion of Jack's fucking. Her eyes meet Ianto's in the mirror, and then she pads closer. Her fingers skim over the rounded curve of Ianto's bottom, pressing harder against the inflamed skin where Jack's smack had landed. Then she takes a firmer grip, spreading him open to examine where Jack's pressing the brush handle into him.

"Bring him off, for me?" Jack suggests.

"If you insist," Gwen replies, quirking a devious smile at Jack before reaching around. Jack can tell when her hand closes on Ianto's cock, because Ianto sucks in another deep breath. In the reflection Jack can see Ianto's eyes close, but he keeps his head up, still, neck straining. Suffused with pride, Jack twists the brush lovingly, tugging it firmer against the tight, resisting muscles of Ianto's arse.

"Into the sink, please," Ianto says, voice strained, as Gwen starts stroking. Ianto's hips rock in counterpoint to her touch, movement stuttering as he tries to match the rhythm of Jack's stimulation as well.

Jack glances over to share an amused glance with Gwen. "The tiles will reset tomorrow as well, love," she says.

"Humour my kinks," Ianto gasps, hips pushing up and pointedly back against Jack. Jack has to admit, he's certainly in a position to demand it. Not that they'd ever deny him. Besides, _my kink is your kink_ has become their team motto somewhere along the way; resoundingly accurate if less catchy than _mi casa su casa_, but _that_ saying is beyond redundant, considering their circumstances.

Jack diverts the happy musing to concentrate instead on the unravelling of Ianto's composure, pumping the brush handle in and out, aiming for Ianto's prostate on every stroke. Jack moves his hand from Ianto's lower back, grasping the edge of the basin instead when he leans in to bite the corded muscle of Ianto's upper arm.

Whatever Gwen's doing is working in beautiful tandem with Jack; soon enough, Ianto is gasping and shivering through his orgasm while she and Jack watch him in the mirror, his face equal parts slack and tense as he surrenders to the pleasure of their attention. Afterwards, Jack runs his fingers around the bowl of the basin, enjoying the contrast of warm come and cold porcelain. Gwen retrieves her hairbrush, and after a moment of contemplation brushes the nylon bristles up the backs of Ianto's hairy thighs.

Jack grins. Great minds.

Gwen rolls the prickle of the bristles over the red smack-print on Ianto's bottom, drawn back to the same spot again. Ianto groans, folding his arms against the edge of the basin and pressing his forehead against his forearms. The pose makes the angle of his back acute, giving Jack a more exposed view of his arse, and Jack indulgently strokes his fingertips over the hot, slick pout of Ianto's arsehole. He could just play with Ianto all day.

Ianto twitches away from Jack's touch, though, straightening as he fumbles for the tap. Jack turns his attention to Gwen instead. She's smirking at him, tapping the back of the hairbrush against her open palm.

"You want a go with that?" Jack asks, eyeing her suggestively.

"Rather have a go with _that_," Gwen answers, nodding towards Jack's crotch. Jack looks down; his cock does look undeniably appealing, hard line of it pressed against his body, angling up like it's trying to escape from his pants. Jack has to admit, in the first few loops he cursed himself for succumbing to the novelty of underwear on that particular day, but as time has passed, he's come to recognise the value of the garment. Albeit quaint, it can certainly provide something nice to look at, as Gwen's appraising gaze now proves. The restriction of soft cotton holding his erection down is also something Jack's come to appreciate.

Gwen tosses the brush aside; it hits the tiles somewhere out of sight with a clatter as Jack stalks forward. His hands go to her arse, cupping her buttocks and pulling her firmly against him, forcing her to tip-toes. Her hands brace flat against his bare chest, and he flexes his muscles as her gaze roams over him. It's giddily pleasing; it's what Jack imagined when she first became fixated on him, it's what he'd imagined that _she'd_ imagined. Even after all these repeats, of fucking her every which way, holding her like this now sends a luscious surge of accomplishment through him.

When she slides her hands up over his shoulders, clasping behind his neck, the towel wrapped around her loosens. Jack grabs a handful of the terrycloth, and Gwen leans back to free it from between their bodies as he yanks it away entirely. Then she presses back against him, her breasts squashing against his chest, hot little nipples stiff against his skin. Her pubic hair, still damp from her shower, brushes his thigh, and her bottom is deliciously soft and plump when he squeezes it with both hands.

Jack dips his head for a kiss, loving the difference in height between her and Ianto. He nuzzles aside her clammy hair to reach the angular stretch of the side of her throat, kissing the exposed skin lavishly. When she giggles he draws back again; it's not exactly the response he was seeking. She's not focused on him; she's looking past him, and when he follows her gaze he sees Ianto leaning back, arse parked on the edge of the basin, watching them with languid amusement.

"Enjoying yourself?" Jack says, squeezing Gwen tighter against him. She squeaks, bites down on his pec in protest. "Want to join in?"

Ianto shakes his head and waves his hand at them dismissively. "By all means," he says dryly, but not without humour. "Carry on."

All right, then, a show it is. Jack won't complain; he loves to perform for them. Gwen seems to share the sentiment, tightening her arms around Jack's neck, dragging him down and pulling herself up. Leaning her weight against the length of his body, she kisses him, chin pushing up eagerly. Her mouth tastes like water, sweet and clean as Jack curls his tongue into it.

Jack turns them around, giving Ianto a better view as he skims his hand down her arse, sliding his fingers between her legs. The wiry curls there are damp, and Gwen's cunt wetter still as Jack rubs between the lips of her sex.

Gwen wriggles in his arms as Jack flexes his fingers, the top of his palm pressing against the yield of her cunt and his fingertips brushing her clit. She's already hot and swollen, probably from watching him have fun with Ianto; or maybe she was having her own fun in the shower. Jack rubs harder against her clit, testing to feel if the little nub is stiff already. It makes Gwen's hips jerk against the touch, and she wobbles on her tiptoes.

Jack has to hunch lower to keep touching her when she flexes down to stand flat on her feet, her head tipped back to keep licking heated kisses into his mouth. Her hand grasps his cock through his underpants, strokes a sheath of cotton around it a couple of times before pulling the pants down entirely; Jack shimmies to get them past his thighs, then kicks them away when they drop down to his ankles.

Gwen pulls away from Jack's mouth to look down at his cock. Her hand closes around it again, her touch lingering as she strokes up and down the hard flesh, as if more for her benefit than his. Jack watches her face, hand still between her legs; he pushes two fingers into her cunt and spreads them apart, feeling the tight elasticity of the clasping muscle.

She hums in her throat, hand squeezing his cock, thumb rolling over the head. His hand is wet, fingers cramped as he slides in and out of her, her thighs and arse and sex converging to make a close, hot little nook surrounded by the most delicious bits of her body. Arousal—a warm wash of it rolling tidally through him since he fucked the brush into Ianto—focuses low in Jack's belly, throbbing heatedly into his cock. The thought of burying it in the wet clasp of Gwen's cunt makes him shiver in anticipation.

Jack straightens again, hands going to Gwen's waist, and he widens his stance and juts his hips forward. "Shall we, Ms. Cooper?"

Gwen grins in delight, her tongue pushing pink through the gap between her teeth. "Aye, Captain."

She gets the drift of his pose, wraps both arms around his neck, tighter this time, and Jack tenses the muscles in his neck and back as she pushes off the ground. His hands go under her thighs, helping her wrap around him, and he staggers under her weight, struggling to readjust his centre of balance. Gwen clings tightly, arms locked behind his neck and knees squeezing his waist— What the hell, might as well carry on with the grand gestures. Ianto already knows how strong Jack is, so there's no need to demonstrate _that_ today; Jack lets momentum carry him a few paces further and presses Gwen's back against the bathroom wall.

Gwen gasps and arches away from the cold tile, her breasts pushing out as her chest heaves. With the wall bracing her back, though, she's got a little more stability; leaving one arm hooked around his neck she reaches down to grasp his erection again. Jack lifts her hips up and spreads her sex open, so that she can guide his cock into her.

The grip of her fist is hot, but the clasp of her cunt around the head is hotter, liquid and smooth; the gorgeous sensation increasing rapidly as gravity assists her downward slide, until her pelvis settles flush against his hips.

Jack tightens his buttocks, flexing against her, cock nudging deep in her body. He loves this position; the leverage both of them have to slam against each other, the depth of penetration and the way her body splays against his, letting him grind his pubic bone against her clit when he pushes into her.

And it doesn't take long to get off this way; though it seems like Jack's been hard forever. His cock feels huge, stretching Gwen's clutching cunt. She's getting there faster than him; the angle of his cock must be hitting the right spot because every thrust fucks the breath out of her in vocal pants, her head tipped back and grinding against the wall.

Jack watches heat flush down the delicate skin of her chest, follows it to take in the bounce of her tits, and the way her belly flexes as she bucks into the rhythm of his thrusts. He can see the rigid shaft of his cock every time he lifts her off him, gleaming with the slick of her cunt; the sight makes his hips stutter into a faster beat. Gwen starts to moan helplessly, each cry pushed out of her by Jack's inward thrust. He grits his teeth; he wants to watch her come without his own orgasm fogging his vision, at least the first time.

Her cries escalate and she uses her leverage to grind down against him. Jack wishes he had a hand free to finger over her clit, force sensation onto the little button of nerves. Then the urge is left by the wayside because Gwen's coming anyway. Her body snaps into an arch between him and the wall, her cunt clenching fiercely around Jack's cock, tension whipping through her.

Her muscles stay poised on the plateau of her climax a moment longer before she shudders loose again, head rolling limply against the wall. Jack wants to lean forward and kiss her slack mouth, lick and breathe the scent of sex from the soft places on her neck, but he doesn't want to break his rhythm. He _can't_ stop, not with Gwen's cunt still tightening around him with the fierce strength of orgasm, its pulsing grip spasmodic in her aftershocks.

Jack jolts at a touch on his arm; Ianto's light, reassuring caress feeling cool in contrast to the crackling heat licking just under Jack's skin. Ianto leans his shoulder against the wall, cups one of Gwen's plump breasts in his hand and lowers his mouth to close around the upturned nipple.

Ianto's jaw shifts under his skin and his cheeks hollow; Jack can tell that Ianto's suckling and tonguing the pink nub. Gwen moans again, and grasps a fistful of Ianto's hair; Jack feels her fingernails dig into his flesh as her grip tightens on his shoulder. She bites her lip when Ianto's hand moves to her other breast, kneading the swell of it before closing his fingers around the nipple, twisting and pulling it gently.

Her cunt squeezes tightly around Jack's cock and she hisses and groans when he thrusts harder in response, stoking her towards another orgasm, determined to drag her with him again when he tips over. Her eyes glitter at the unspoken challenge, using her hold on his shoulder to roll her body into the speeding beat of his hips, grind her clit down against him as well. He growls, and the next thrust fucks a surprised laugh out of her; it tightens the muscles in her solar plexus and belly and right down to the walls of her cunt, constricting around Jack's cock.

It rips the orgasm out of him, his scalp prickling and sensation rushing down his back like the sharp bristles of the hairbrush are being dragged over his spine. The muscles in his arms and backs of his thighs, corded tight from holding the position of their fucking, burn and seize as his hips slam forward a final time. Jack's spine bows and he throws his head back, his shout echoing off the tiles, an animal-like sense of victory suffusing him as he feels his cock jerk in the grip of Gwen's body, pulsing out the hot flood of his come.

Jack's legs tremble and he locks his knees before they can threaten to give out. The muscles in his arms feel tenderised; he couldn't lift Gwen for another thrust if he tried. Instead he gives into the urge to bow forward, bracing most of her weight against the wall. He presses his face into the hot, fragrant curve of her neck, lapping up the sweat, trying to mark her with sharp nips of his teeth. He's still pinning her with his hips, though, his cock still mostly hard in her, shivering aftershocks feeding back into Jack's spine as he feels his come slicking the channel of her cunt.

He's still gasping when her second orgasm rolls through her like a wave, fighting the lassitude of his comedown to focus on her. It's less intense than the first time, her body undulating against the wall, her cunt pulsing around him. Ianto's probably coaxing it out of her with the tight deliberation of his touch on her nipples; Gwen's whimpers sound half-desperate as she twists her hand in Ianto's hair and pushes her chest against his mouth.

Finally, Ianto lets her pull him away, then helps them disengage, taking some of Gwen's weight as Jack eases her to the ground again.

Gwen's hand is still in Ianto's hair, and she's running her fingers through it, scratching against his scalp. He keeps palming her breast even as she kisses him, and Jack brushes her hair back to kiss the side of her neck again, lips gentle on the blossoming lovebites.

Ianto's erection brushes against Jack's thigh, and Jack pulls back with a grin. "Shower?" he suggests, glancing between them both as they look to him, their pupils still black and shocky with lust. "We could spend all day," Jack says, looking forward to it already. He strokes Ianto's cock suggestively. "The hot water will reset tomorrow."

*

The tumbling notes of 'Flight of the Bumblebee' ring through the Hub, and Ianto freezes.

"Oh my god," Gwen gasps, not for the first time in the past ten minutes, but this time for entirely different reasons. "Oh my god—is that? Does that mean—?"

Her bare back is tense against Ianto's chest; the same surge of adrenaline is rushing through his body. A moment later and she lifts her legs up, freeing Jack's head from the clasp of her thighs. Planting her feet firmly on Jack's shoulders, she pushes him back.

Ianto can still see Jack over her shoulder as he sprawls, gasping, his face red and his cock red too, sticking up into the air. Jack props himself on his elbows. "What? What?"

"Shut up, Jack, and listen," Gwen says sharply. Ianto can't get enough breath to speak, himself.

Jack listens. Then he says, "It's your phone," as if it's obvious. "It's 11.32."

"But it's not _Jingle Bells_," Gwen hisses.

Jack struggles to his knees, shuffling forward to skim his hands up the inside of Gwen's thighs again. She doesn't kick him off, but she's still tense as a whip-crack in Ianto's arms.

"I know," Jack says, as if he doesn't realise how momentous hearing 'Flight of the Bumblebee' just might be. "I got sick of Jingle Bells, changed it this morning before you woke up." —Or, it could be that.

"Oh, fuck," Gwen pants, tone one of very fraught relief. "Oh, _fuck_. And you didn't think to tell us?"

Ianto's shaking. Being naked feels very… very _naked_ all of a sudden, his limbs itching to draw up safely against his body, or to take him away from this, from them— Hide in a dark corner somewhere and lick the shock-inflicted wounds of hearing that ridiculous ring tone. It's been a while since the _flight or fight_ urge has pumped through his nervous system. He's still trapped between Gwen's body and the sofa, though, Gwen's limbs trembling like she isn't going to be able to move any time soon.

"Sorry," Jack says unconvincingly, but the apology seems a little more genuine when he looks up at them both. Some of the lightness in his tone is undone further when he moves one hand from Gwen's skin to rub Ianto's as well, pushing up for a kiss. Gwen first, her head falling back against Ianto's shoulder while Jack kisses him; Jack's mouth is faintly apologetic but mainly insistent, insinuating the familiar taste of Gwen's cunt into Ianto's tastebuds.

Jack pulls away and looks at them both; Ianto stares back, as he assumes Gwen is. Jack rests his hands on each of their throats, then up to cup their faces. His touch firms, urging them to turn to each other, to press their mouths together.

The kiss is chaste at first, Gwen's speedy breath puffing out against Ianto's upper lip, her mouth soft against his. With the increasing pressure of Jack's hand, though, Ianto nudges closer. Gwen yields, and Ianto imagines he can taste the cool taint of adrenaline in the slick of her saliva; it passes back and forth between them through the practiced rhythm of their stroking tongues.

"Gorgeous," Jack murmurs, pushing his hand into Ianto's hair, tracing around the curve of his ear, thumb stroking behind his jaw. Gwen hums into Ianto's mouth, a surrendering sound, and kisses him with more force. Her arse presses back against him, stirring his cock, still half-hard where it's nestled against the small of her back.

Jack shifts again, and Ianto cracks his eyes open to see what he's doing. Jack sinks back onto the floor, back to his position between Gwen's legs. Gwen breaks away from Ianto's mouth on a gasp when Jack fixes his mouth over her clit again; she rocks forward into Jack's face, then back into the cradle of Ianto's groin. It forces Jack's knuckles against Ianto's balls.

Ianto has the fleeting thought that it should worry him more; that moments ago they were freaking out and now they're back to fucking, but… This is what it's like, now. The timeloop has changed everything, made things more ephemeral; emotions, sensations… Even his higher brain functions have been relegated to transient moments.

Everything resets, and everything loops back again, and every day they play the cycle out with their bodies.

Last night they were sat here, Jack holding Ianto from behind, Jack's legs bracketing Ianto's own and Jack's cock stiff in Ianto's arse. Gwen was in front of him, strapped into her dildo, her sweat-stained hair clinging to her throat, dark tendrils of it not quite reaching down to her swinging breasts. Her black plastic cock had forced him open alongside Jack's until Ianto couldn't breathe, couldn't see; could only grind his head back against Jack's shoulder with his mouth wide open, feeling like he was being driven out of his own skin.

Reset.

Gwen groans as Jack rearranges them, she rises on her knees to give him room to guide Ianto's cock to her arsehole, and when she sinks down onto it the tightness of her body makes Ianto throw his head back and gasp, the dim heights of the Hub spinning above him. He thrusts up to push the last inch or so of his cock into her, then Jack's pressing her down so she's fully seated, holding Ianto vise-like within her. Ianto shudders, jaw tightening as he bites down on her shoulder, her sweat a salty burst of flavour in his mouth.

Her back is a tense arch against Ianto's chest, but Jack's not done yet; pushing Gwen's thighs wider as he presses his hips between them. Gwen's head lolls back onto Ianto's shoulder and he wraps his arms around her waist and holds tight, as if that can prevent her from falling apart.

Her breath leaves her in an explosive gasp as Jack's bare cock slides into her cunt, and then her hips buck against the immediacy of his thrusts, pulling off Ianto's cock a little before jerking back down. The overwhelming chaos of their convergence lasts just a moment; then they sync to Jack's pounding beat, match the cadence of Gwen's panting, fuck to the frantic thud of Ianto's heart.

Reset.

'Flight of the Bumblebee' buzzes irritatingly on the edge of Ianto's hearing, its careening melody clashing with the tidal roll of pleasure that's smoothing out his thoughts. They could turn it off without even having to stop, if only Jack's bloody wrist strap was working.

Then Gwen reaches up to clasp the back of Ianto's neck, and Jack surges forward to take his mouth in a biting kiss, and Ianto forgets all about it.

**Author's Note:**

> http://angstslashhope.livejournal.com/1606675.html (2/2)  
> http://hope.dreamwidth.org/1626621.html (2/2)


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